Today I am recalling January, thumbing through my day planner, trying to pin this down, trying to put brackets around it. On Monday, January 27, I fly from Portland, Maine to Pittsburgh to visit family. The trip requires two flights, and I wear a mask in both planes....
My grandma’s Singer was black with a yellow and orange floral pattern on the side. It folded down like origami into a table when she wasn’t using it, but mostly I remember it upright, with her sitting hunched over her sewing, foot pumping the treadle while I stood...
My mom forgets that she lives in China. “I live in Michigan.” she tells me during our Skype chats, the South China Sea almost visible from the window behind her. I search her face for the woman I use to know. Her eyes are sometimes harried, frenzied by imagined...
The intersection of body and place dominates Natalie Scenters-Zapico’s second collection Lima::Limon, a book that makes explicit the ways in which female bodies are excavated and mined. She writes in “The Hunt,” the final poem of the collection, “I am a lucky /...
My words are purple and my brain is growing green tell them about all those you found This is the time to be outta your mind. I have never been so sure of anything, she said. Or have I? I’m not sure When my kids were little, their art was everywhere. Finger...
